A Strangling Ribbon
by Tomorrow
Summary: Something's wrong with Helga... something even Arnold can't do anything about. Deathfic.


AN: My first _Hey Arnold_ fic, so please… be gentle.

Disclaimers: I don't own _Hey Arnold_... darn.   
  
_What's the deal? Why's the world gone loopy all of a sudden?_ Helga thought to herself as she walked down Market Street, only a couple of blocks from her house. More exactly, only a couple of blocks from her bed-- The place she'd been spending most of her time lately. She'd been beaten down and trapped, locked in a fevered cage of hazy, nauseous sickness and speckled with ugly purple bruises. She couldn't explain it, but for the past months she found herself wandering through guttural, unfamiliar corridors of sleep and dreams: some illusory passages were the effects of subconscious fear, the other hallways constructed from medicine-induced euphoria.

She woke up earlier that afternoon feeling even worse than usual and hoped that getting out into the fresh air would settle her stomach. Besides, as much as she hated "the great outdoors," definitely a creature of modern comforts, she enjoyed being outside and hanging out with the kids from school--football, baseball, just sports in general. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she hoped to meet up with them and maybe get a game in… if she could last that long. The other day when she was playing catcher (with Arnold up to bat, no less), she was caught off-guard by a splitting headache and had to quit after the third inning-- She just didn't have the energy and needed to lie down and sleep the migraine off. Even today her steps were deliberate and staggered with the constant buzz that harnessed her mind, rider on a carousel of vomiting horses, feeble carriages, weak lions, and limp swans. She just felt so lonely… scared somehow… because she didn't know what was wrong.   
  
Walking up the stairs of her complex and into the living room, thankful that Miriam was too forgetful and afflicted with a smoothie hangover to lock the door, she turned the knob of her room and flopped on the bed. 

"Olga!" her father's whiney, grating voice permeated up the stairwell and infested her ears.

"It's** Helga_,_** Dad! **Hel-ga**!" she seethed into her pillow, not in the mood for Big Bob's idiocy and total apathy towards her right then.

"Yeah, yeah right…" he muttered under his breath, completely disregarding her. "There's a kid here with a weird-shaped head to see you. Something like Alfred…"

"It's Arnold, Mr. Pataki," Arnold interjected, holding a pile of schoolbooks under his arm and waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yeah, whatever," Big Bob mumbled as he left to sit like a lazy, worthless pile of bloat, lard, and muscle on the couch in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen as he watched the scantily clad show girls and cheap glittering lights in his new beeper commercial.

"Arnold!" Helga gasped as she nervously--and dizzily--stumbled down the stairs to meet him, wracking her brain to figure out why Arnold would be at _her _house. Phoebe usually came over after school to drop off her assignments… but Arnold? She was always so degrading to him, aggravating and demeaning him and just downright insensitive, calling him names and enticing his passive aggressive wrath with her pettiness. Why would he be here, of his own free will?

Not that she wasn't excited about it.

"Oh, uh…" her eyebrow slanted, mouth plummeted, and teeth gritted coyly, reflexively. "I guess that's your good deed for the day, huh, Football Head?"

"Not really, Helga. You haven't been at school the past week, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay… especially after the baseball game." 

Four months. Four months since she'd attended a full week of school, and whatever days she did manage to make it, she usually ended up leaving early--becoming accustomed to the constant fevers and headaches and nausea. Phoebe questioned her numerous times about her health, and Helga always gave the same reply: "It's okay Phoebes. I guess I just caught some funky virus or something. I'll be fine by tomorrow." Those tomorrows turned into next weeks, and those next weeks turned into next months. A vicious cycle of denial that wrapped her in its seductive, comforting clutches.

No one in her family seemed to care; they were too wrapped up in Olga's recitals, beeper emporiums, and see-saw fits of depression to even spare a glance her way. She knew that fact well enough.

No one ever cared about Helga G. Pataki. The ugly, masculine, bullying, lanky girl. Why would they? She wasn't some pretty little wind-up doll with a painted, porcelain face like her sister. She didn't perform tricks on command or curtsy or drown in pretentious sweetness. She had more integrity than that… but not enough to overcome the jealousy and bitterness she felt towards others… towards loneliness and exclusion, even from within her own family. Being ignored made her rueful and poetically tragic, obsessed with anything that leant her attention.

That's why she loved Arnold. He treated her like a person, no matter how belligerent she was. Regardless, she was still a human being with feelings… no one else ever saw that, ever saw passed a thick, cracked shell of negation.

And she couldn't really blame them.   
  
Arnold seemed the most concerned with her condition. She didn't act the same, only calling him Football head on occasion, sitting demurely and subdued, meek whenever she spoke to him. As much as he would have never admitted it to anyone else, since he was little, the one thing he really liked about Helga was her eyes. He couldn't explain it, but there was always an intense sparkle shimmering in the midst of fiery blue, passionate and defiant, even rebellious. It was inspiring to him, enduring, somehow. But now it was gone, withered away. Dull. She had always been on the skinny side, but now she was just plain gaunt, not even buying an ice-pop when the Jolly Olly Man came around. He couldn't remember the last time he saw her eat. It was getting so obvious, that the last time the truck came by, _he_ offered to pay.

When she snapped out of her reverie, she found herself lying on the floor, with Arnold kneeling by her side--a panicked look marring his face. "Arnold…" she groaned, trying to remove the blur from her eyes. "I don't… " Her body began to tremble. "I don't feel good."

"Mr. Pataki!" he shouted to get her parent's attention, running over to the phone in order to call 911. But the only response from the living room he received was a slurred mumbling from her mom, who tossed her hand lazily into the air while saying, "Just get it yourself, Helga."

------------

_Helga? _

Arnold sat anxiously in the waiting room, mulling over the recent events in his mind. Her dad seemed annoyed when the ambulance arrived, incessantly questioning how much the service was going to cost him and if his insurance would cover it. Her mom looked worried enough, but she was still too tipsy to really be of any use, stumbling over the house and making incoherent utterances before she passed out on the kitchen floor. Actually, Big Bob left after the doctor informed him that the lab work would take a little while. According to the Beeper King, it was a waste of his time to be there if he wasn't doing anything, and from the way he stormed out, it appeared to Arnold that he wasn't coming back anytime soon.

"I have some news about your little friend," A kindly nurse with loose red curls told him, snapping him out of his musings, and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Why don't we step in here?" She motioned to door leading into the hospital wing, and they sat down in two chairs resting just outside of it.   
  
"The good news is that we know what's wrong with her," the nurse said calmly, placing her hand on his shaking knee to steady it. When had he become so nervous? "But the bad news is..." she hesitated, as though searching for the most direct phrasing, "she has leukemia." He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't say a word. "It's fairly advanced... spread throughout almost her whole body."  
  
Arnold just stared at the nurse's lips, almost not registering what she said.

"Leukemia is a cancer--a very serious and sometimes fatal disease--that affects one's bone marrow, or the cells that fight colds and other germs," the nurse explained, trying to make him understand. "It's usually treated by injecting the patient with poison, called Chemo Therapy, that will kill off the cells infected with the disease. But at this point it's too far along for that. We can try a transplant…" but her sentence faded off, for she felt as though she disclosed too much already. That little girl needed hope, and by dampening the sprits of her friend, she was only decreasing Helga's chances of recovery.  
  
"I hope you'll go see her, because it can be scary. But it's not so bad if you have someone to lean on."

----------

He came everyday after school hoping to just cheer her up, just to let her know that someone, even if not her family, cared that she was suffering. Her parents were never there when he walked in, and all she ever did was sleep. Why would she do anything else? There was never anyone to spend time with or to talk to. Her roommate was always cranky and hacked all night, keeping her awake. If she even got close to him he'd spray spit and phlegm all over her, like his lungs and mouth were a lit mucus canon. So she might as well pass the time dreaming. It had to be better than her real life... the real world. The reality of it all. 

He would sit at her bedside, just watching her, telling her how bad he felt. That he wanted to help. But he knew he couldn't. It was in God's hands, and even his optimism seemed dim and foolish when he watched her back convulse as she coughed or heard the rustle of the bland-white bed sheets. It was futile, and somehow, deep down, he knew it.

----------

"Helga, you're awake."  
  
"Yeah," she said, stale and hoarse. Weak. Defeated. "I have to be, 'cause they're going to do the transplant soon." She knotted the sheets in her hands, twisting and wringing the cotton, all the while her eyes staring absently at her exposed toes.

"You know, Helga, I've been coming to see you everyday for the past two weeks, but you didn't see me because when I came, you were sleeping," Arnold informed her as he took a seat, making sure she realized, that she knew she wasn't alone. He would make her see. "I know." Her hands stopped. "The nurse told me a kid with a weird-shaped head had been visiting me. Said he looked really worried." She bit the inside of her mouth, still keeping her eyes averted. 

After a few minutes of unsettling silence between them, her voice filtered through the room, almost echoing. "So why'd you do it?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Come here, to visit me, after how mean I've always been to you. I mean, I probably wouldn't have even come to visit me." Her question was sincere, and she gnawed at her lip, waiting for his reply.  
  
"Because, Helga, I'm your friend."

She didn't say anything at first, and after a few minutes of quiet he rose a little from his chair, not even sure if she heard him. Then suddenly, urgently, her hands began to tremble and her lips quivered, and looking down he noticed a thin, glimmering thread of water drip from her chin and onto those folded hands strangling the bed sheets.

"What if this doesn't work, Arnold? I'll die." She finally looked up at him. "I'm scared… no one will even miss me… and it's my fault." 

"It's going to work, Helga. You just gotta think positively," he told her resolutely, placing his hand on hers and giving her a warm, grateful smile. Genuine. "It's going to work, and soon everything will be back to normal."

"Young man," a black-haired nurse said softly, allowing stray streams of light from the hallway to spread across the girl's covered legs and their entwined hands, reflecting off of their nails. "It's time to prep her for her operation, so you'll have to visit her afterwards." 

Before shutting the door behind him, Arnold looked back at his friend, still smiling, and assured her, "You'll be all right, Helga."

----------

The next morning was a Saturday, bright and sunny, with birds chirping and skittering and children laughing and flying kites and playing in the park. Adults were lounging in the sunlight, working on tans or just enjoying the aura of laziness, watering gardens or grocery shopping. Arnold left a little after sunrise to visit the hospital, carrying a puff of white under his left arm. Before he'd gone, he rummaged through a chest of old heirlooms and keepsakes that had been stored away by his parents and grandparents, pulling from its dusty depths a stuffed lamb. It used to be a snowdrift, chaste white, but it was now yellowed and faded by time and must, with flecks of dirt embedded in its coat. Yet its fur was still soft and fluffy, with dark black eyes sewn into its woolen face like polished mirrors. Around its neck was tied a flowing blue ribbon, with a heart-shaped charm attached to it that read: as sweet as a lamb. To this day, he could still remember the animal sitting at the end of his crib and resting on his windowsill, just before his parents left for their last adventure to help the Green-Eyed People. He used to believe that it watched over him at night, gentle and vigilant as his mom and dad's eyes, vouchsafing a memory. He was never alone as long as his lamb was there.

Maybe it could help Helga, too.

"Hegla, are you…" Arnold barged in the room excitedly… to be greeted by emptiness. 

She wasn't there. Gone. Vacant and torturously silent. Her bed was made and smelled like antiseptic, the sheets clean and so white that they hurt his eyes to look at them.

He immediately dashed out of the room, finding the nurse who had interrupted them yesterday, and asked, "Where's Helga Pataki? She isn't in her room."  
  
"I'm sorry, but she isn't here anymore." Her eyes fell, and she brought her clipboard closer to her chest. "She passed away last night, in her sleep."  
  
He didn't blink. He didn't do anything. Just looked at her strangely, as though he couldn't understand her. His mind filled with blankness and void. Nothing but a chasm of confusion.

"Excuse me, but are you by any chance Arnold?" His eyes moved, which she took as a yes, and she continued. "Well she told us, not long before she died, to give this letter to a boy named Arnold." Out from her pocket she pulled a folded envelope and handed it over to him. Written on the paper's surface, the ink smudged in sporadic blothches, was his name.  
  
After a moment of stillness, he took the letter with a shaky hand and let his feet drag him to her room. While standing over the empty bed, all remnants of her presence washed away and sterilized, he opened the envelope and hesitantly unfolded the letter, which read:   
  
_My Dearest Arnold,  
  
If you're reading this letter, then I guess I'm already dead. I'm sorry that you wasted your time coming here, but I don't care anymore. Not when there's a world full of people who don't care about me, either. I guess I just don't know how to care anymore. People always thought that I was so strong and mean and nasty, always ready to get my revenge and fight. But I was just lost… still am lost. I didn't know what it meant to be noticed, until that day you held your umbrella over me our first day of preschool, when you told me how much you liked my bow. I hate that bow, but I wear it because you said you liked it. I just wanted you to like me. I had never been told by someone that I was okay or that anyone cared, so such trivial words to others meant everything to me. You mean a lot to me, Arnold.   
  
I gave up so you wouldn't have to worry about me picking on you anymore. So that you could walk through the halls without someone jeering or demeaning you because of who you are. You never did that to me. And, in all honesty, Arnold, I don't know why I ever did it to you. It's best for both of us this way. Remember: I'm a bully… so don't make me out to be any more than that. I made my bed, now I have to lie in it… I just wish I had longer. _

I hope to see you someday, wherever you go when you die, but I hope it's not soon. I hope you and Lila get… ::smudge:: married and are… ::smudge:: happy. I hope that you play with all of our friends a lot over the years ::smudge:: and you skin your knees and fall down. When you do, I hope you kiss the scrapes, because that's my kiss, ::smudge:: repaying you for how much you cared for me now. I hope you stuff yourself full of ice cream with the others, and don't let any go to waste. Eat for both you and me… and you know I eat a lot. ::smear::

Take care, my friend. Thank you for holding me when I was scared in that cave. Thanks for taking care of me when I had amnesia. Thank you for giving me the confidence to always do the right thing. And, finally, thank you for believing in me when no one else would.   
  
I love you, Arnold, Helga 

Slipping the note between the lamb's ribbon, he set animal on the crisp clean pillow and left the room in silence. He shed one tear, and then smiled, knowing she was finally happy. Knowing that he would see her again someday.

He just knew.


End file.
